


An Un-Friendly Breakfast

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Schmoop, fic import
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter





	An Un-Friendly Breakfast

[](http://1297.livejournal.com/profile)[**1297**](http://1297.livejournal.com/) is hosting a [Valentine's prompt fest](http://1297.livejournal.com/41067.html?view=2579563#t2579563) this weekend.  Of course, I had to fill the prompt Chris/Karl, "I don't want to be friends."

\--

Karl had a can of shaving cream in his hand and a package of disposable razors that crinkled and crackled as he sneered at the aisle of valentine’s candy and boxes of pink lacey hearts and cheery cartoon greetings.

“Look at all of this shit, Pine. Rot your teeth, rot your brain, empty your wallet. Thank fuck we’re single this year, eh?”

His hazel eyes sparkled and the stubble on his cheeks fucking shone like velvet in the fluorescent lights, his brown hair all glossy and shit. How he managed to look so pretty when he was so scruffy, Chris never knew. It was ridiculous, Karl looking GQ in the Walgreens, but this was his friend, and there was nothing to it but to stand by in awe and stifle his reaction.

Again.

Chris, hands full of bottles of sunscreen, didn’t nod in agreement, but Karl didn’t notice. He was too busy asking “who the hell are the Rugrats?”

Chris went to pay for his stuff, snagging some lip balm at the counter. He debated just briefly between cherry and plain. Who the fuck was he kidding?

He picked plain. It was his m.o., these days.

\--

Karl was talking up the redhead in the corner and it looked like he’d made a connection—not a love connection, far from it, because after the divorce he’d made it clear to Chris—“my pal, thank fuck I’ve got someone who calls me out on my shit but just lets me be a guy, too” that he wasn’t looking for love—but someone he was going to take home for the night. He’d tried hooking Chris up with her cute brunette friend, but that wasn’t going to happen, and everybody but Karl seemed to get that. Chris had just come along to suss things out, make sure Karl wasn’t too wasted before he left with this hookup, all of that wing-man type stuff.

He finished his Bud, set it down on the bar, took a leak in the bathroom, then headed out.

Clapping Karl on the shoulder, he wished him good night and gave a smile to the lady—she seemed nice enough, not too much of a starfucker, though you never could tell.

“Already?” Karl asked.

Chris nodded. “Early call at the set,” he lied.

Karl’s redhead put her hand on his arm, then looked over at Karl. “Karl was just saying you would probably duck out—all work and no play makes Chris a dull boy, you know. You should come play.”

Chris watched as her peach-painted smile didn’t waver, then looked over at Karl—seemed like he hadn’t come up with that invitation. He answered the girl before Karl could get a word out because he really did not want to know what Karl thought.

“Thanks, but I’m a plain and simple kind of guy, I’m afraid. I appreciate the offer, though.” He gave her a smile, the “no-hard-feelings” one, then turned it into the “hey, I get it, wasn’t your idea” smile for Karl.

“Night.” He walked off into the noise of the bar before either could answer.

Chris tugged his white t-shirt back down over his black jeans and put on some lip balm for lack of something better to do with his hands—like punch something—on his way back to the car.

\--

His phone rang at nine the next morning—rolling over, he looked at the I.D.

Karl.

He ignored it, rolled over, and pulled the pillow over his head. Everything pounded, though that had nothing to do with the bottle of whiskey he’d drunk when he got home. Right.

His phone rang again, and he checked it again. Still Karl. He turned off the ringer.

Sometime later, there was pounding on his door. He ignored it and pulled the covers up over the pillows—who cared if it left his feet uncovered, it made it dark and the poundy-pound in his head a little less muffled.

Finally, the hellhounds went away from his door and he sighed, relaxing back into sleep. He felt his foot jerk like it did sometimes right before he slid under, and curled up a bit onto the bed. Warmth cocooned him—if it stank under the covers, a little like whiskey, a little like the shower he didn’t take when he got in from the bar, what the fuck did he care? It wasn’t like he was entertaining that much these days.

Just as he’d finally started to doze again, though, someone sat on the edge of the bed.

“Oi, Chris, the fuck? Thought you said you had a call in the morning. You sick, mate?”

Fuck. He’d told Karl where the spare key was, hadn’t he?

“Go ‘way. ‘M’not sick—just felt like gettin’ out of there early. Fuck off, Karl, ‘m sleepin’,” he mumbled into his pillow.

“You’re hungover, kiddo, unless you’re using whiskey bottles as décor all of a sudden.”

Chris whipped back the covers and pillows and _ow, sunlight hurt_ glared at his friend. “So what?” He narrowed his eyes and inhaled. Karl smelled like the redhead’s perfume—he hadn’t even been back to his own place, most likely.

Karl blinked, then put on his best disarming smile. Of course, it looked dead sexy on him—two days’ stubble, hair hopelessly mussed by that woman’s hands, shirt mis-buttoned, chest hair crackling out of the collar. Chris could smell him, he was sitting so close—worse, he could smell her. He needed to vomit.

He swallowed it back. Karl looked dead sexy—a look over Karl’s shoulder at the mirror over the bureau showed Chris just looked dead—pale, eyes red-rimmed, dark-circled, exhausted. Plainly out of contention.

Whatever.

“Let’s go get something greasy for breakfast,” Karl offered. “You and me, hangover breakfast between friends.”

Chris blinked. Blinked again. Swallowed hard. Tried not to get melodramatic. Tried really hard. Then gave up the ghost.

“It’s fucking Valentine’s day. If you think there’s a brunch table in town that isn’t already booked, you’re on crack. And maybe, Karl, think about this. I left early last night for a reason. Alone, for a reason. I don’t like redheads. Or threesomes. And I got drunk alone for a reason. I happen to like Valentine’s day. And I don’t want to be friends.”

He scrambled up the rest of the way, sitting cross-legged in his plain white t-shirt and boxers. “I also think it’s disgusting that you’d come here still smelling of her and ask me out for breakfast, regardless of anything else. Not classy, man.”

Karl sat there, gape-mouthed—for once, it wasn’t a good look on him.

Disgusted—resigned—Chris wasn’t really sure what—he got up and went to his shower because he was awake now and he really did reek.

He wasn’t surprised to find Karl was gone when he came out. He changed the sweat-sticky sheets, put the whiskey bottle in the recycling bin, and crawled back into bed.

\--

It was the smell of coffee that woke him. That and the crackle of bacon. His clock said almost noon, something he found hard to believe, but unless he’d slipped into an alternate universe with house elves or something, he was going to have to get up and find out what had happened. He put on some clean sweats and a t-shirt and set out to the kitchen.

Karl. Shaved, combed, practically buffed within an inch of his life, and changed into different jeans, a different shirt. He hadn’t cleaned up Chris’ house, but he had left his boots at the door, something he didn’t do all the time. He was making bacon, coffee was brewing, and there was a plate of pastries and a box full of fleur-de-sel caramels coated in chocolate out on the table along with a cellophane sack of raspberry jellies in heart shapes, dusted with cinnamon sugar.

He must have called Zach, Chris thought to himself, because Zach knew Chris loved those raspberry jellies with an unholy passion.

“If you bought me flowers I’ll kill you.”

Karl turned around, fork in hand.

“Christ, no. Not with your allergies. Never understand how someone grown up in California can be allergic to both sun and flowers.”

Chris nodded. He stepped further into the room and took a deep sniff.

“Eggs in the oven,” Karl said.

“I’m not …” Chris began, tugging at the hem of his shirt. His reflection in the stainless-steel fridge was only slightly less wan than this morning. A timer went off on the stove.

“You are,” Karl answered, then turned around and grabbed one of the dishtowels and pulled a pan out of the oven. It looked like a gorgeous puffy frittata, and Chris’ eyes widened—there were vegetables of some kind and it looked all gooey with cheese and it just smelled like heaven.

Something stuck in Chris’ throat. He crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his chin down as he stared at the floor. “I don’t need anything fancy.”

It was childish, sure, but he meant it. He’d done without for a while.

“I know,” Karl said. He was standing toe-to-toe with Chris now, and only the fact that Chris was staring down at their feet kept him from seeing whatever expression was in Karl’s eyes. Maybe it was a mere apology to a friend and something awkward. Maybe it was something more—he didn’t want to be the first one to know.

A smooth cheek rubbed against his still-stubbled one—Chris hadn’t bothered to shave, just washed off the fumes of the whiskey.

Karl rubbed his cheek against Chris’ again—slow friction, starting to burn. His hands hemmed Chris into the counter where he was leaning. “It’s okay to want the things that are fancy. And I’ll tell you a secret.”

Chris swallowed. Said nothing.

Karl’s mouth hovered right next to Chris' ear. “You’re the only one who thinks that you’re plain.” A tongue darted out, flicked the edge of his lobe, was once again gone. A ghost of a kiss materialized on the edge of his jaw. “Come on. Eat some breakfast. I did not make it for my friend.”

Drawing away, Chris looked up this time and Karl’s eyes were dark, that lush mouth of his serious.

“That so?” Chris asked, and Karl nodded.

He took a seat at the table and started to pour out the coffee. Karl set down the frittata and bacon, then took the seat on the opposite side. Knees touched under the table, then ankles.

It wasn’t friendly at all.


End file.
